I am two trips and three weeks of school behind, so I'm remembering about one book in three, and I'm giving the extremely short version.
What is the What, fictionalized biography labeled as memoir by Dave Eggers. Creeped me out; I don't think Eggers quite knows what he's doing on this one.
The Misfits, young-adult fiction by James Howe. Like, apparently, every other novel ever published for young people, does some interesting racial work muddied by some really disturbing racial blind spots.
The Crazed, fiction by Ha Jin, in audiobook. Long, long, long, long stretches of cryptic noninformation about which the narrator wonders stuff, which wondering isn't really the strongest tool for generating suspense. The prose is generally memorable for the wrong reasons; one chapter ends, "Then he declared in all sincerity, 'I'm only afraid I'm not worth of my suffering.' His assertion made my gums itch."
What Maisie Knew, fiction by Henry James. I usually can't stomach movies or tv shows with really graphic violence (and I skipped the now-titular bits in that Murakami novel that has come to be known in our family as The One With the Skinning) and this was sort of like that, but without the violence. Terrible things happen to a small child. It's very effective.